


Without You Here

by MadiRoma221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fake Character Death, Feels, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Nightmares, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3875896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadiRoma221/pseuds/MadiRoma221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock jumped but John Watson is the one who died that day.</p><p> </p><p>Also uploaded on my wattpad account: Johnlockismykink</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You Here

**Author's Note:**

> These characters do not belong to me, if they did Johnlock would be canon by now!! 
> 
> This is my first solo fic, unbeta'd and written on my mobile phone haha  
> Hope you like it, let me know down in the comments! :)
> 
> Xx M

Chapter 1:

"SHERLOCK"

John Watson's eyes flew open, jerking upwards. His heart was pounding in his ears and his breathing was ragged.  
Every night since Sherlock's fall John had been having nightmares, every night he watched as his best friend raised his arms and tipped off the edge.  
The scent of Sherlock's blood still lingered in Johns nose as he tried to calm himself, lowering his head into his hands. It may have been Sherlock who fell that day but John is the one that died. His heart was shattered in pieces on the street, his blood mixing with Sherlock's as they both seeped into the pavement. 

John sat up and looked at his bedside clock. Well not his bedside clock, but Sherlock's, he'd taken to sleeping in the downstairs bedroom. Sherlock's scent still lingered in the sheets, all of his strange things and mad experiments still cluttered the room as if he had only popped out and would be back any moment. 

Three am. John heaved a sigh and pushed himself off of the bed, he knew he wouldn't be getting back to sleep tonight.  
After flicking on the kettle, John looked around for his laptop. He spotted one half of it by the door, the screen ripped off at the hinges and smashed beyond repair. He'd forgotten about that. His last blog entry.  
Shaking as he finished the post with 'I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes'. He had felt an anger welling up inside him as he typed, hitting send pushed him over the edge.  
Blinded with grief and rage, John tore at the laptop, smacked it and threw it until the rage disaparated and all that was left was the hole in his chest that ached with every gasp for air through the manic sobs.

John is... was, he corrected himself, in love with the mad consulting detective. But they had never dated, or kissed, or touched, or even once awknowledged the tension between them. The world had seen them as friends, when John had seen them as more, as an almost. After every case he would tell himself, tonight is the night, tonight I'm going to kiss him, but he had always chickened out at the last minute. Next time, he would mutter, trudging up the stairs to his room, alone.

The kettles whistle brought John back to himself, only then realising that tears had escaped his eyes in steady, silent paths across his cheeks. Coughing roughly and forcefully rubbing his eyes, John went to finish making the cup of tea.

Making tea was almost theraputic in a way, like muscle memory, it didn't require thinking, his hands knew what to do. He had pulled two mugs down from the shelf without even realising it until he turned to call to Sherlock that it was ready.  
It was the first time this had happened. John's hands fisted by his side and eyes shut tight, trying to stop the storm that was threatening to burst.  
It had only been a week, or had it been two or three? It could have been five months from when the detective jumped and John wouldn't have noticed. He remembered a parade of mourners, expressing their condolences, he remembered Mrs. Hudson fussing over him daily, sometimes there was Greg, Molly or Mike and even one awful time, Mycroft. He never said anything to them when they came and finally they stopped coming, save for Mrs. Hudson, John assumed she was used to being ignored by the inhabitants of 221 B.

John abandoned the cups and pulled on Sherlock's blue robe, he sat down in Sherlock's chair and stared at the bullet holes in the wall. He stared until his mind went blank, not exactly sleeping but not exactly awake either.


End file.
